Of Freedom and Folly: The Untold Tales of Gaipan's Arboreal Vagabonds
by cfpepperz
Summary: To what extent does the freedom of one justify the destruction of the other? Follow the Freedom Fighters before, during, and after canon appearances as they struggle with the moral and meaning of their actions in a world marred by war. Rated T for strong language, mild sexual references, and violence.
1. 1 The Unexpected

**TITLE: **Of Freedom and Folly: The Untold Tales of Gaipan's Arboreal Vagabonds

**SUMMARY: **To what extent does the freedom of one justify the destruction of the other? Follow the Freedom Fighters before, during, and after canon appearances as they struggle with the moral and meaning of their actions in a world marred by war. Rated T for language and violence.

**CHAPTER ONE: The Unexpected**

"_Monkey Feathers!"_

Jet kicked away a charred, fallen pillar, pulling away smaller debris with his hook swords as he searched the smoldering ruins of what had probably been a temporary Earth Kingdom settlement just hours before. It was rather small, he had noted: just a handful of peasants scattered along the bank of the Hong Ye River, not more than two leagues from the main settlement at Gaipan, quietly farming the fertile floodplains toward the end of the peak season.

And just as they were settling down to enjoy the labors of their harvest, the Fire Nation Army had gone ahead and made spoils of the good people and their hard-earned wares, consuming what they couldn't store in their greedy bellies in flames. As usual, they'd left nothing but death and destruction in their wake, sparing neither man nor child in their never-ending conquests.

And, as usual, the Freedom Fighters had been too late to aid the innocent.

The mop-headed teen grunted as he pushed out the part of his mind that mocked the futility of his actions; that questioned the worth of it all. It was so tiring, so taxing: taking care of oneself and a few dozen displaced orphans day after day, season after season, cutting down Fire Nation scum even as more always seemed to appear in their place, doing anything; _everything_, to keep his home, his friends, his _children _safe. And as his love for them had grown, so had his hatred of those who threatened their well-being: there was too much to do; too many Fire Nation to expel from the only home he had left; too many deaths unavenged…

Stopping suddenly, Jet pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes smarting from the airborne ash, fingers aching for the metal and leather flask at his hip. No time to cry; no time to gripe; no time to just _stand there_ all day when his Freedom Fighters were picking apart what was left of this razed town under his orders.

He took a swig, eyes snapping shut as the fiery liquid burned down his throat, carrying ash and soot and worries with it. By the second swig the pain had dulled to the point of being bearable and, with a sigh, the Freedom Fighter and his hook swords were back to their futile work, the soft crunching of his feet upon charred debris fading into the wind.

"Those heartless bastards," muttered Sneers, kneeling over a charred corpse in seething contemplation as he finished performing an abbreviated Earth Kingdom burial rite over a fallen civilian. Stomach churning, the monk wiped a gloved hand over the sickeningly small body's eyes, shielding their bloodshot torment from the ash-grey sky.

A massive, but gentle hand on his shoulder announced Pipsqueak's arrival. The behemoth regarded him gravely, his usually jubilant, booming baritone dulled to a quiet rumble.

"Longshot and I pulled up four bodies down by the riverside," he muttered. "No word from Bee yet; she's got the four huts closest to the forest."

"You and Longshot go help her clear debris," Sneers replied, resuming his full height as he mentally prepared himself to face more remains. "I'll take care of the dead."

The gentle giant nodded, turning to face the Freedom Fighters' tall, silent archer as he came over the ridge. With an inclination of the head, the two set off toward the forest, dread bubbling up in their throats as experience and imagination began to formulate the unspoken misery they would likely find there.

Out of all of the huts in the village, those near the forest's edge appeared to have suffered the least damage. The designation, however, was of little consolation: straw and splintered wood littered the earthen floor, while the façade of one dwelling had been peeled away like a skin of a fruit, exposing the still-smoking contents within. Another beside it remained intact, but scorch marks radiating from the entrance betrayed its inhabitants' gristly fates.

Not a moment later Smellerbee had emerged from that very dwelling, her paint-striped face covered in soot. The swordswoman appeared green, and before Pipsqueak could process what she might have seen she had staggered past him, just barely reaching a bush before emptying the entire contents of her stomach. Longshot was at her side in an instant, rubbing her back as she struggled to find her breath again, offering her his canteen as soon as she had gathered her bearings enough to rinse the foul taste from her mouth.

"I'm not done yet," Bee muttered bitterly as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve, accepting the archer's waterskin without meeting his concerned gaze. She took a quick swig, gargled, and spit the contaminated water at her feet in a manner so unladylike that Longshot might have smiled in happier circumstances.

But for now, he had to insist that she take a short breather.

"I don't need a 'breather,' " she snapped at his pointed look, turning to face the hut again, "we owe it to these people to make sure that we don't leave a single stone unturned: if there are any clues as to where the fire Nation's going next, or if there are any survivors—"

Survivors.

Longshot cringed, remembering how the term, while positive in the fact that it meant 'not dead,' had acquired far too many negative, empirical associations to it in his time as a Freedom Fighter. Being a survivor implied that you had been through something thorny enough to pick off something close and dear to you: friends, family, a home, a _voice_—

And then there had been those who had lost an arm, a leg, or just too much blood, and then there was nothing they _could _do but hold hands and whisper assurances that it would all be over soon; to barely keep it together as the innocent were slowly and agonizingly consumed by death.

And whoever _did _manage to escape the jaws of death with little more than their fractured lives and the tattered clothes on their backs:

Well, you got the Freedom Fighters.

Before he or Pipsqueak could stop her, Smellerbee had pushed past Longshot and reentered the dwelling, intent on sifting through every potential clue if it meant she and the rest of the Freedom Fighters were that much closer to preventing another raid. Her stomach would just have to deal with it.

Without bothering to argue the matter further, Longshot ducked under the low threshold after her, hissing as the odor of burnt flesh filled his nose. A quick survey of the dwelling's interior revealed why Bee had gotten ill.

What few personal items that had once decorated the small home had been torn from the walls, or now lay in smoldering, crumpled heaps on the hard earthen floor. The remains of a cracked table, two chairs, and—his stomach turned violently—a _high chair_, lay unceremoniously strewn about, not quite obscuring the—

Two twisted bodies in the far corner of the home, their skin blistered and black, laying face-down in the muck and the filth and —

The tiniest of sounds twitched past his ear.

The perceptive archer had whipped around in an instant, the sharp intake of his breath catching Bee's attention. Their eyes locked momentarily before going to the lifeless heap in the corner, thoughts bouncing between them at the speed of sound—

No. There was no way that it'd still be here, in a condition that wouldn't be etched into his mind for the rest of his life, but before he knew what he was doing he was in the corner, carefully turning over the woman's hunched body—

And there, yes, _there_, in the smooth, miraculously uncharred crook of her arm and breast, was—

"BEE!"

The words had no sooner vibrated through atrophied vocal cords and escaped once-mute lips when his addressee yelped in surprise, and a strangled, gurgling cry bubbled forth from the struggling bundle in the dead woman's arms.

In a second, the swordswoman had dropped her weapon and was now craning over Longshot's hunched figure, not daring to believe what she had heard before she had seen it with her own eyes—

And then suddenly the entire façade had been ripped from its earthen foundations, Pipsqueak's broad silhouette shading his comrades as the late afternoon light as it filtered through the dwelling, his eyes popping as the sights and sounds finally came together in a beautiful, miraculous realization that—

"Great Spirits, there's a BABY in here!"

Pipsqueak's booming declaration all at once turned the deathly silence of the site into a bustling menagerie of sounds, each overlapping the other as the troop of young vagabonds staggered over their discovery in frazzled incredulity: Pipsqueak had done away with his load with a great heave, the crash of splintering wood augmented by the infant's rolling wails and a cacophony of cackling viper-ravens, spooked from their roosts, pooling in a great black cloud far above their heads. Longshot cringed, his perceptive ears ringing painfully from the sudden influx of noise, and it wasn't until Smellerbee tugged at his tunic with slight urgency that he came to his senses.

"'Shot, gimme your cape."

Without delay, the archer fumbled with the knot on the garment in question before handing it to the swordswoman. She'd snatched it pointedly, her eyes never leaving the wailing infant before them, carefully (though with obvious inexperience) wrapping it up in the tattered red material before scooping the child into her arms, bouncing slightly at the knees as she attempted to quell its crying.

By the time Jet and Sneers had appeared over the ridge, Smellerbee had somehow managed to reduce the baby's wailing to whimpering.

"Shhh… s'okay, you're safe now. You're gonna be just fine…"

She nodded as their leader approached them, shooting a venomous glance at Sneers as she sensed him assimilating this veritable goldmine of blackmail material he'd surely pester her with later. The monk closed his mouth, but in his inebriated stupor, Jet wasn't as soon quieted.

"How on Earth—"

"I'll explain later," she snapped quietly, clutching the infant against her armor-padded chest before nodding at Pipsqueak pointedly. "Pip, would you mind gettin' my knives?"

The behemoth nodded meekly, performing the desired action as Smellerbee approached Jet, the successfully quieted infant still bouncing in her arms.

"My best guess is that the people who were living here came down from Gaipan," she remarked stoically. "I saw some wood cargo boxes stamped with the town's seal in a few of the huts."

Jet nodded, swaying and chewing his wheatgrass thoughtfully. "They were probably here to do some seasonal farming," he remarked. "Not that you'd know it, though, with how much those damn ash makers have burned away…"

"In any case," she interrupted, "I think that our best bet of finding any family this kid may have is in Gaipan."

Jet quirked an eyebrow, unaware of how quickly his verbal filter was disintegrating. "You sure you don't wanna keep 'im?" he quipped, the corner of his lip slowly curling upward as his train of thought intersected Sneers'. "I'm sure Longshot wouldn't mind playing da—"

If Bee hadn't been preoccupied with the bundle in her arms she would have done more than glare daggers at her leader just then, but all she could do (lest the child wake up and resume wailing again) was duck her head and hope that her teammates hadn't noticed how flustered she was.

"I'm not a nanny at your Freedom Fighters Daycare, _Jet_," she muttered with tactile contempt, doing her best to ignore the pang she felt as her silent companion recoiled under the brim of his hat, his reaction to the notion artfully obscured.

"Hey, hey, cool off, Bee!" he slurred, the bootleg boosting his intrepidness. "I mean, you obviously know how to take care of 'im, and you _are _a girl—"

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?!" Smellerbee hissed, clapping her hand over the child's ear as not to perturb him.

"Well, you've certainly got the _equipment_ to, you know… _feed _him…"

The tomboy froze, half inclined to laugh at her leader's ignorance if the urge to crawl into a dark hole and never come out again hadn't completely engrossed her. Hell, she might have even dropped the poor kid in shock had Longshot, ever stoic, not gently freed the girl of her burden, trying his best to hold the now-sleeping child the way the swordswoman had.

Jet barely had time to suck in his breath before Smellerbee managed to knock it out of him again with a tiny, well-placed fist to the solar plexus. As he doubled over from the blow, the swordswoman whipped out a concealed penknife from a pocket in her leather breastplate, bringing it dangerously close to Jet's nether regions.

"I don't assume that the presence of a sack between your legs means that you've got balls," she growled venomously, grimacing as she caught the stench of alcohol on his breath. "You'd do best to know how girl parts _work_ before you get drunk enough to spit out that kind of crap again."

Her leader did nothing but gurgle inaudibly in return, at which point Smellerbee turned her heels (smirking inwardly as she observed the shock on Sneers' face) and returned to her loyal friend, reclaiming the sleeping bundle with little fanfare.

"I'll be back before my watch shift," she muttered, feigning indifference as Longshot regarded her apologetically. "And in the meantime, keep Jet's head away from the bottle and out of his ass."

_A/N: New story, people! I've been working on this one on and off for a few months when I can, but now that summer is rolling around soon I feel comfortable posting it with the guarantee that I'll be able to update it at reasonable intervals. I won't update, though, unless I know I have an audience, so if you like the story and want to see more, please follow/favorite/comment! I am totally open to criticism, suggestions, and the like if they are stated politely, but a simple "Yay!" from my dear readers always makes my day!_


	2. 2 Homecoming, Pt 1

**CHAPTER TWO: Homecoming (Pt I)**

"C'mon guys…," the now more than slightly inebriated leader of the Freedom Fighters whined as he attempted to appeal for the actions that had earned him the bruise now flowering on his sternum. "You know I didn' _mean _it!"

"Sure you didn't," chirped Pipsqueak with an edge of sarcasm, "but given the circumstances I don't blame Bee for getting pissed at you."

Longshot accompanied the comment with a stinging glare toward their leader, making a point that he'd heard more than enough of Jet's sexist, uninformed banter. Too drunk to perceive the archer's message, however, Jet simply shrugged and staggered along as the troop took its usual route back to the hideout. After the remainder of their search had yielded no other promising evidence of survivors, the small band of Freedom Fighters had made the unanimous decision to return home for the night, regroup, and then return to and make final checks at the site in the morning and salvage what the Fire Nation hadn't already plundered.

Now—after nearly an hour of trudging through thorny brush and avoiding the worst of the ancient trees' knarled roots, Jet mumbling and swaying and staggering and attempting to make excuses for his behavior the entire way—all three of his present comrades were running dangerously low on patience. Sneers wore a mask of practiced apathy, but Longshot could detect the downward turn of his lip clearly enough to determine that the monk was on the cusp of requesting that Pipsqueak knock Jet out with his log and carry him the remainder of the way home. Even Pipsqueak—as deceptively gentle as he was—looked like he was contemplating a similar plan of action, and Longshot noticed in himself the unmistakable urge to raid the cellars and drain the barrels there of their fiery, mind-numbing contents before Jet would thirst for it again.

It was a saving grace when the group finally arrived at the hideout not ten minutes later. Sneers and Pipsqueak yanked tersely on two separate retractable lines hidden in the massive tree's lowest limbs, disappearing into the canopy. Rolling his eyes, Longshot strapped Jet with some difficulty into one of the harnessed lines typically reserved for injured Freedom Fighters and, with a tug, sent the boy on his way. As far as the archer was concerned, Jet was Pipsqueak's and Sneers' problem now.

At that point—exhausted and imbued with a particularly nasty migraine—Longshot crouched at the base of the tree, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a long-held breath. It was hard for him to distinguish exactly what aspect of his day had been most taxing: between the razed village, the bodies, Smellerbee, the baby, and Jet's whisky-inspired tirade, the archer couldn't possibly pinpoint and meditate on a specific event that had affected him in the past couple of hours. Now, as his thoughts and questions and memories zoomed about his head like a loud and angry swarm of mosquito-wasps, the sheer volume of Longshot's preoccupations was enough that he knew better than to try to lift his hand and swat the pests away.

And so he sat, silent as ever, taking in instead the chirps of evening cricadees and the distant chatter of hog-monkeys, and before long the lullaby of dusk had pushed away the once impervious buzz and moved him to sleep.

* * *

Rolling grass ticked Smellerbee's ankles as she glanced at the Gaipan settlement from the summit of a large hill, the cogs in her head turning in an effort to devise a plan for getting from her current location to the town not too far below. Of course, in late summer, thick weeds and brush obscured even the most weathered of dirt paths, and with the added hindrance of the small child sleeping soundly from a makeshift sling about the swordswoman's neck and shoulder, the proposed journey would take far longer than she'd originally anticipated.

"You're a real pain, aren't you?" she mumbled, staring in mock-contempt at this fresh addition to her person. The child, however—having never broken the silence since Bee's departure from the wreckage—had long since drifted off to sleep, and had remained as such for the past hour despite the bumps and stumbles all too frequently encountered on the decidedly less developed roads of Gaipan. The swordswoman suspected that the constant movement may have actually played a role in keeping the child silent for so long—in any case, though, she wasn't going to complain about the single positive circumstance that had befallen her that day.

If anything, the responsibility of taking the child back to Gaipan was far less of a burden than the prospect of dealing with Jet in his current condition: if her leader's prior encounters with hard Fire Nation whiskey were any indication, Smellerbee was willing to bet her entire set of knives that Sneers, Pipsqueak, and Longshot had individually contemplated the…_elimination_ of the source of their mutual migraine. The swordswoman grinned, making a mental note check up on the boys later to make sure that they hadn't _actually_ killed each other.

The task at hand, however, took precedence over the girl's musings, and before long she had swiftly begun her descent into the valley below, hopeful that her mission would be complete before sundown.

* * *

Upon reaching the towering wooden gate that marked the village entrance, Smellerbee had taken a moment by the nearby river to rearrange her appearance. While the task was necessary in order to separate rumors of vigilante children in the forest from a perceivable truth, she couldn't help but stare at her reflection in the water without a measurable level of discomfort: the swordswoman had shed her breastplate and trademark weapons, concealing them in the bushes before hastily scrubbing her face free of paint and combing through her hair with wet fingers, tugging at the untamed knots and frizz. Though the daylight was waning, Smellerbee could tell that the girl staring up at her from the watery mirror— with her wide eyes and rosy cheeks— hardly resembled the warrior that she had become.

Before she could dwell on the image further, though, a gurgle startled her to her senses.

"All right," she affirmed, scooping up the child from the bank, doing her best to coax him back to sleep with gentle bounces. "Let's get you home, you little hogmonkey."

* * *

_(A/N: Sorry for the short update full of fillers: finals week is approaching, and I haven't had as much time to write as I'd like. I'll get the rest of the chapter up soon._

_Also: thanks to Jordan, somniumweb, and tumblr's wiltedredrose for the words of praise and encouragement! I deeply appreciate the support!)_


	3. 2 Homecoming, Pt 2

**CHAPTER TWO: Homecoming (Pt II)**

It was after nightfall when Smellerbee finally slipped through the town gate, her person somewhat lighter now that the delivery had been conducted. The swordswoman smiled, moving with newfound ease as she sneaked past the night watchman and made for the stream to retrieve her belongings. Those matters addressed, she slinked back into the woods, her favorite dagger in one fist and Longshot's red mantle in the other.

As the village lights faded in the distance Smellerbee slowed her pace, now confident in the unlikelihood that she would encounter an adversary so far from known civilization. Nevertheless she carefully scanned her surroundings with her senses, avoiding suspicious sounds and smells as she followed the path laid out by the stars. Her swiftness was fair and true, for it wasn't long before she reached the familiar ring of trees that marked the outskirts of her home. Smellerbee sighed in relief, and felt her remaining energy leave her as the prospect of collapsing into bed—however hard and lumpy it was—suddenly became a plausible possibility.

She reached up to wipe the thin sheen of sweat on her brow, aiming to catch what her headband hadn't. The recognizable sensation of her sleeve, however, was interrupted by a different texture. It was only then that the swordswoman realized that she still tightly clutched the archer's kerchief in her gloved fist.

_[]_

_"__It's okay, dear, we'll take him from here. We'll make sure to get him to a safe place before the night's out."_

_Smellerbee glanced down at the ball of warmth in her arms, only now taking in the features of the child's face. She counted the faint lashes on his closed eyelids, their blue venation still showing in the faint lamplight. His chubby arms were balled up tight, tiny fingers gripping the edge of Longshot's mantle like a vice. Despite all he'd been through—despite the fact that, some miles away, his parents lay charred and dead in shallow graves—here he was, perfect and at peace, innocence untouched by tragic circumstances. _

_She couldn't help but wonder: if every child came to the Freedom Fighters like this, would there even be a Freedom Fighters at all?_

_"__He likes to be walked," she murmured, her eyes never leaving the child's face. "I carried him for hours and hours, and he never made a peep s'long as I was moving."_

_"__He knew he was safe and going to a better place," the matron replied as she relieved Smellerbee of her burden, supporting the child expertly with her forearm. "Thank you for bringing him home."_

_The Freedom Fighter nodded, trying to ignore the growing ache in her chest as she folded the makeshift blanket, the rough cloth still warm with the infant's presence. She tucked it away gingerly, as if its essence could be broken with a callous tug, exhaling softly as she ripped her eyes from the child to regard the woman who now held him. _

_More than anything, though, she was sorry for this child's dismal prospects: for the fact that he had been lucky enough to be granted loving, caring parents, only to have them snatched away. How long would it be until his innocence faded; until this child realized that he could never be loved as he had been before; until the seed of pain and hatred was sowed in his heart?_

_"__I'm sorry about the village," she finally managed to say, resolve hardening as the barriers she'd built so long ago snapped back in place. Without delay she bowed politely in farewell and, without glancing back, vanished into the inky blackness of night. _

_The woman sighed, her eyebrows furrowed in a tent of consternation. _

_"__As am I, dear. As am I."_

_[]_

No sooner had Smellerbee unfurled the garment—using her chest plate as a surface to smooth out the creases she'd so carelessly made—when she encountered its owner at the roots of the Freedom Fighter base's main tree, his consciousness long ago claimed by sleep.

The girl froze, suppressing a surprised gasp: a Freedom Fighter was never seen this exposed so low beneath the canopy, no matter the time of day or night. Given how frequently Fire Nation troops and Earth Kingdom citizens passed through the area, anyone not expressing a measurable level of prudence could reveal the position of the entire base, and—depending on the nationality of the encountered party—could end very badly for the Freedom Fighter involved.

Smellerbee thought that the archer—as quiet and disciplined as he was—would be the least likely of their troop to violate this unspoken rule, and yet here he was, the stiff and proper image he had been known to carry reduced by what she could only guess was exhaustion. Indeed, Longshot's sinewy limbs radiated from his torso in crooked paths, molding with the pattern of the tree's massive roots, and the tunic she'd so frequently observed last the entire day without suffering a single stain or wrinkle was positively disheveled. Hardly any of his fine ebony hair was still pulled up in the wolftail he'd so meticulously constructed that morning, instead falling in front of his face in a dark, tangled mess, wafting occasionally with his deep and rhythmic exhalations.

The image was so entirely unexpected that—despite the day she'd had—Smellerbee couldn't help but crack a smile, glad to know that she hadn't been the only person in the whole group to have felt the difficulty and strenuousness of the past few hours.

_At least he was able to take his mind off of things long enough to get some sleep_, thought the swordswoman wistfully as she tentatively placed her hand on the boy's shoulder, regretting that she'd have to wake him up and get him back to the hideout if she was to be sure of his safety for the night.

"Longshot," she whispered, giving the archer's shoulder the tiniest of shakes. "C'mon, man, let's get you to bed. It's late and you don't wanna know what kind of shady stuff lurks around here at ni—"

She stumbled over her words as his eyes fluttered open, his entire body suddenly rigid with consciousness. He attempted to get on his feet using the massive tree's roots as handholds and the leverage of the trunk, but the endeavor only succeeded in pushing the archer further into the rooted fissure. For a split second his expression screamed fear—Smellerbee could only liken it to a cornered animal—but upon recognizing his fellow Freedom Fighter, phased seamlessly into ease.

"What's the deal?" Smellerbee half laughed, half snapped, giving his shoulder a quick pat before stepping back to give the archer some air.

Longshot raised an eyebrow, gesturing to his cheek as he continued to blink rapidly, the sleep still clearing from his eyes.

"You didn't recognize me."

Longshot nodded curtly, his gaze flicking up to the leafy canopy before he resumed eye contact.

"Yeah, I left the rest of my red paint and kohl here," she admitted dryly, offering her friend a hand. He took it gratefully, rising to his feet in a single fluid motion. "But I figured that it'd be better to drop off the kid if I didn't look like a half-starved raccoon dog, ya know?"

The archer tilted his head at her again, the rightmost corner of his lip curling upward in the subtlest of smiles. He'd never tell her, but he'd come to like her choice of war paint and couldn't help but observe how much it matched her personality. Even without the formidable red stripes on her cheeks and the harsh smear of black on her lower eyelids, the swordswoman's tenacious spark remained, radiating with purpose and brutal efficiency. Though he had learned early on in his time as a Freedom Fighter that Smellerbee was a force all her own—and that to be on the receiving end of her blade was to look into the eyes of Death herself—Longshot had also come to develop an unusual connection with the girl: one that extended beyond their complementary skill sets as warriors and even, in a way, transcended the traditional boundaries of friendship. Precisely how or from what direction this threshold had been crossed was still lost to him, but the rumor-fueled jeers and kissing noises frequently made by other Freedom Fighters whenever the two were seen together made it more than clear what everyone else thought.

"You okay, Longshot?"

The addressed started, a twitch in his jaw betraying an involuntary grimace. He nodded slowly in affirmation, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Yeah: I'm beat, too," Smellerbee replied, stretching her twig-like arms in a fantastic yawn. She was sure that fatigue and Jet's drunken episode weren't the only sources of Longshot's apparent disgruntlement, but was far too tired to delve into the heart of the matter at this hour.

As if to reiterate her point, the swordswoman reached for the concealed tug line, shaking a few leaves loose as she dislodged the tangled cable. She finally pulled it free, cursing Sneers' clumsy jig reset work under her breath before stepping on the small wooden foothold.

"I'm headed back," she announced, suppressing another yawn. "You coming?"

Longshot nodded in affirmation, securing his own line in quick succession before he peered back to his partner. A challenge glittered in Smellerbee's eyes, passing through her lips with a wry smile before she gave the line a final tug and was swallowed by the leaves.

"Race ya."

* * *

_(A/N: This part of the fic has Longshot and Smellerbee at 14, and Jet at 16: so, in all likelihood, just a little bit before the Gaang meets the Freedom Fighters canonically.)_


	4. 3 An Iron Cage

**CHAPTER 3: An Iron Cage**

_(TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains references to domestic abuse. Please read at your own discretion.)_

_[before]_

"Shhh, Suuna, shhh…you're okay; Mommy will be back soon."

Sharp cries cut through the dusk as the infant writhed in the cradle, her pudgy legs pedaling as she tested her vocal cords for the umpteenth time. Her eyes and fists were wrought shut in a gesture that Mifung could recognize as a demand for attention—or, more specifically, a long-unheeded request to be fed.

The girl sighed, hastily rolling her braid into a loose bun before scooping up her niece in her arms, bouncing occasionally in an attempt to lull the child back into a slumber.

"Where are you, Ninta-i?"she hissed, rubbing Suuna's back as comfortingly as she could manage as she paced about the room, wondering what had befallen her sister so close to curfew. If her word was anything to go by, Ninta-i should have been back at least an hour ago— just long enough to pick up some meat and vegetables for the evening meal; she'd promised—but the setting sun was beginning to raise the question of whether she'd be home in time to even cook what she'd purchased. Mifung shuddered to think what Lao Feng would do to her if he came home—hungry after a long day of conducting his slimy business—to find that his dinner had not been prepared. She was not ignorant of the fact that her sister had sustained a black eye not long after she'd shattered one of his celadon plates last month and, though Ninta-i had denied the incident altogether, Mifung knew that her sister's typical method of coping would not shield her (or Suuna, for that matter) from future inflictions.

Mifung was stirred from her musings by Suuna's hungry wails. Pushing stray wisps of auburn hair from her eyes, the girl fetched a sucker, and attempted to coax the plug into her niece's mouth. After some maneuvering she had succeeded, sighing in relief as some long-awaited silence finally befell them.

"Thank the Spirits," she breathed, allowing the child to grasp her pinky as he slumped against the wall, overcome with fatigue. "How on Earth does Ninta-i deal with you all day?"

Then, as if on cue, Mifung heard footsteps at the doorway, followed by the jangling of keys.

"Nini!" she gasped as her sister's familiarly round face appeared at the threshold, her shoulders bowed by the weight of the basket she bore on them. "Are you okay? You said you'd be back more than an hour ago, and its already past curfew!"

"I'm sorry, Mimi," she breathed, rushing into the kitchen before setting down her groceries. "I was with Chang and lost track of time, and then Mrs. Matsuda closed down her vegetable stand earlier than usual—"

"It's fine," Mifung interrupted, trying to be as reassuring as she could as her older sister bowed her head in shame. "I would have much rather been here taking care of Suuna than back at home: mother would have probably made me recite a stupid tea ceremony or get that damned dress fitted, anyway."

She approached her sister, coaxing Suuna gently into her arms. Mifung smiled as she saw her sister's fatigued eyes suddenly illuminate with affection, the corners of her mouth raised in a tender smile as she cradled the infant, the day's worries momentarily forgotten.

"She's hungry," whispered Mifung, whisking away to the kitchen. "Hold her n' feed her for a bit, and I'll get dinner started."

Grabbing a pair of spark stones and a few logs, Mifung set about preparing the stove, doing her best to remain quiet as she set a massive cast-iron skillet onto the heated surface.

You're making curry, right?"

Ninta-i nodded, regarding her younger sister with a grateful smile as she dutifully proceeded with the task, stripping the vegetables of their skins and husks with deft precision. Not five minutes had passed before the first of the ingredients had been chopped and minced, caramelizing in a thin coat of oil as the second round of vegetables was processed similarly. No one doubted Mifung's outright hatred of domestic duties, but she couldn't deny that she could perform certain tasks—especially those involving tools—with unparalleled efficiency. Her older sister didn't have to peer over the countertop to know that every single chunk of meat and vegetable was uniform in size.

"I never quite understood how you manage to do that," said Ninta-i, gesturing at a neat pile of chopped carrots.

"Huh, this? S' nothing,"Mifung replied, nonchalant. "I suppose if I have to know how to do anything, it's cook, right? It's not like I'm going to fetch a high dowry by being pretty and delicate."

Her tone now bore a scathe to match the intensity of her knife strokes, slicing through the root vegetable as if it were soft butter. "But hey: if I end up with a fat, slobbering miser for a husband, I might have some chance of feeding him to death before he tries to bed me."

"You'd better hope he doesn't crush you first," joked Ninta-i, lifting her shirt to allow Suuna to suckle.

Mifung snorted as she tipped the carrots into the pan. "I'll take that over giving the fat lout the satisfaction of bearing and raising his child."

Ninta-i's face grew solemn as Mifung curtly wiped the knife clean and cast the soiled cutting board into the sink, turning her back to direct her full attention to the stovetop. For a moment only the pop and sizzle of frying vegetables permeated the silence, which even then seemed to echo with emptiness.

"Mimi—"

"How do you do this every day?" she blurted, turning to face her sister. "How can you let that—that _toad-slug_ put his hands all over you? Why doesn't Chang—"

"Keep you voice down, Mifung!" Ninta-i ordered, her eyes flitting frantically toward the doorway as she instinctively clutched Suuna closer to her breast. Startled by the primal fear in her elder sibling's eyes, Mifung didn't need to be told twice to exercise caution when discussing this—_matter_.

"If Chang gets into this, Mifung, Lao Feng is going to suspect something," she whispered, not tearing her eyes from the front door. "If Lao finds out that Suuna isn't his—"

"It won't matter."

Ninta-i bristled, fighting to keep the fear from her words.

"What do you mean, _it won't matter_? H-he will have Chang _killed_! He will take my child away from me, Mifung: he will sell her into slavery—"

Mifung snapped.

"And how is that any different from her fate here? Is it not slavery that, after her first moon blood, every girl in this village is practically _sold _by her family to be the property of a man, and one she does not love no less?!"

"But Lao—"

"It doesn't _matter_ if Lao never finds out, because no matter how good of a wife you are—no matter how obedient and submissive you are, no matter how well you keep the house, no matter how many times you _pleasure_ him—_Spirits_, it doesn't even matter how many of _his_ childrenyou bring into the world: he will _never_ stop beating you, Ninta-i, until you are cold and dead!"

The girl's knuckles had turned white from her grip on the wooden spatula, though the vegetables she'd been stirring with it had been all but neglected, moved to the cooler side of the stove as Mifung swiveled to face her sister head-on, her tear ducts threatening to yield.

"Chang _loves_ you, Nini. He loves you and wants to spend his life with you, and I can't imagine that he would want anything more than to be there for you and Suuna, but that can't happen unless you get away from this terrible place!"

Shudders wracked Mifung's tiny frame as the sobs rose up from her throat. Ninta-i, already weeping freely, extended her free arm in invitation, pulling her sister into a tight embrace. For a moment they just held one another, Suuna nestled snugly in between them and, if only for a few moments, were as ignorant of the evils of the world as the slumbering infant.

"I can't lose you, Nini," whispered Mifung, some measure of her emotional balance restored, "and I will do anything it takes to get you, Chang, and the baby out of here undetected, I swear it."

The tension and anger dissipated, and in their place arose a beacon of resolve and hope, for they had had a glimpse of the world beyond the iron cage.

Ninta-i smiled sadly, pushing back a stray lock of hair from her sister's face as their hold was broken.

"I will go," she said, "so long as we go together."

* * *

_A/N: I'm getting into Smellerbee's motives for running away from home (which, as the AvatarWiki states, accounts for her enlistment in the Freedom Fighters), at which point she is about 11 or 12. Her sister, Ninta-i, is about 16, and Suuna is about 3 months old. As for names:_

_Nintai__(Japanese): patience; endurance (nickname: Nini)_

_Mífung__(Chinese): bee (nickname: Mimi)_

_Thanks again for reading, and please comment if you have any questions or statements!_


	5. 4 Detour, Pt 1

**CHAPTER 4: Detour**

**Part I**

_[now]_

"All right, we'll take a break here!"

Sneers all but dropped the crate he had been carrying at his feet, fumbling for the waterskin at his hip with one hand while wiping off the thin sheen of sweat on his brow with the other. It did not take him long to find refuge under a shade tree with several of the other Freedom Fighters, each having more or less repeated his actions in retreating from the burning noonday sun.

"If we keep moving at this rate," muttered Smellerbee, rubbing a sore spot on the small of her back after standing completely upright for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, "it'll be this time tomorrow before we get back home with all of this stuff."

Longshot nodded in agreement, briefly removing his conical hat to fan himself. The entire front of his tunic was damp with perspiration, flecked occasionally with the beads of sweat that had fallen from his temples, while his mouth—characteristically a thin and impermeable line—was open and gasping for air. If his appearance was anything to judge by, Smellerbee was inclined to believe that the archer was absolutely miserable but, as the swordswoman knew from experience, he would never let it on to the others that he could do with a more substantial amount of time to recuperate. That he carried almost as much as Smellerbee and Sneers did combined surely wasn't making the daunting task any easier, either.

"Longshot, you're gonna get sick if you keep this up for much longer," chastised Smellerbee, rolling up her sleeves and loosening her chest plate just enough to provide some relief from the heat. She even tugged off her gloves—a rare occurrence even in this weather—though her wrists were still bound tightly with linen.

The archer gave her a sidelong glance, trying (and failing) to convince her of his competence in the present situation.

"Hogmonkey shit," she muttered. "All of us here know that you're _manly_ or whatever: you don't need to prove that by being so damned stubborn."

He refused to acknowledge her.

Smellerbee sighed, the heat taking too much out of her to carry on a one-sided argument.

"Don't you know that it'll be a_ lot_ less embarrassing if you ask for a break now than if you pass out and fall on your face?"

He tilted his head.

"Not as embarrassing as asking a friend to help you out though, huh?"

The girl scoffed, rubbing her hands in the dirt to improve her grip on the crate she was carrying. Judging by Sneers' emergence from the woods (he had obviously just returned from taking a leak), their break was quickly coming to an end.

"Whatever. Just let me know when you're ready to get off of your high ostrich-horse."

He rolled his eyes, replacing the shade hat back atop his head before reaching for his own crate of salvaged goods. The Fire Nation raid hadn't left much for the Freedom Fighters to collect, but there were still some construction materials and supplies that the soldiers had managed to overlook, as well as some iron farm tools that had not melted in the heat when the storage cabin had been set ablaze. He had also managed to gather some relatively un-scorched linens and blankets, both of which became very rare commodities during the colder winter months. Unfortunately all of these items were undeniably heavy and bulky, and it had been a taxing experience to ferry them from the destroyed village back to the hideout all on his own.

"Hey, granny! You coming or what?"

The swordswoman was already halfway up the next hill, clutching her own crate of spoils as Sneers bypassed her, muttering something about discretion in Fire Nation-occupied territory. She could only laugh as the archer clambered up the slope after her, shoving her playfully as he reached the summit a few seconds later.

When he finally matched her pace on the descent, Longshot had to steady himself on a nearby tree trunk to keep his legs from giving out. His face was red with exertion, and his lungs were rattling with effort, and he would have liked nothing more than to wait out the worst of the afternoon heat before continuing on their way back to the base, but he knew better than to give Smellerbee the satisfaction of admitting that he had indeed reached his limit.

Longshot was up and moving within the minute, but the swordswoman didn't know how to read the boy's body language for nothing.

"Sneers!"

The addressed, not ten ahead of them, turned around. Whiplash and Skeeter—two of the younger Freedom Fighters that had come to aid the senior members with the new acquisitions—also about-faced, their eyes filled with fear at what they thought was an impending attack. Sneers, who knew better, cracked his neck in annoyance, exasperation marring his tone.

"What is it _now_, Smellerbee?"

"It's hotter than the Firelord's nutsack out here!"

The younger boys' fear dissolved into sniggers, and even Longshot—though her outward lewdness hardly ever elicited a reaction from him—couldn't suppress a smile.

"Well what do you want me to do about it, draw Ozai an ice bath? Or better yet, you can keep being as loud as you're being and the Fire Nation will carry your message—along with all of our heads—back to the Firelord himself."

"Even the _ash-makers_ don't go out in this heat!" retorted Smellerbee, pulling at her collar. "And in any case, we'll all die anyway if we keep travelling without a proper break."

Sneers still wasn't convinced.

"Look," she explained, relieved to see out of the corner of her eye that Longshot was finally recuperating from his sprint up the hill. "We're about five minutes east of the stream, right? It's a short detour, and there are plenty of places on the bank that are hidden enough from view that no one would see us."

"_Fine_," said Sneers. "We'll take an hour down by the water."

"_Yes_!" cheered Whiplash, flashing the swordswoman a toothy grin. "Thank you, Miss Smellerbee."

"_Miss_ Smellerbee?" she repeated, amused. "Ain't_ that_ fancy."

"Yeah, Jet told us to call you that," he piped, the jangling of various utensils in the sack hanging over his shoulder emulating his excitement.

"Oh, _Jet_ told you to call me Miss Smellerbee," she laughed, figuring that this would be the first of his brown-nosing to make up for yesterday's behavior. "And how long did Jet say that you have to call me _Miss_ Smellerbee? A week?"

"No, until you get married!" replied Skeeter.

She nearly choked on her own spit.

"_Married_?"

"Yeah, then we have to call you Mrs. Longshot."

Sneers snorted, unable to help himself as the archer stumbled over a fallen log that he regularly would have been able to elude. Smellerbee's scowl could have frightened Koh, and the archer feared that her teeth might crack if she clenched her jaw any tighter.

"And _when_," she inquired slowly, doing her best to hold back the worst of her fury and humiliation, "did Jet tell you this?"

"Last night at dinner," said Skeeter. "He was talking and walking kind of funny, though, and didn't come until we were almost done. Skillet was really mad at him, and sent him to bed."

"Well it's good to know that there's _someone_ around the hideout with enough sense to keep things in order," she spat, glaring at Sneers. "At least he didn't mention the baby…"

She shut her mouth, but judging by the way Skeeter's eyes were practically popping out of his skull, she was already too late.

"Wait, you and Longshot are having a _bab_—?"

"_NO!_"

* * *

_A/N: Obligatory implied Smellershot because I can. _

_Whiplash and Skeeter are just a coupla young Freedom Fighter ragamuffins whose names I just pulled out of my butt. I guess I'll include them later: I kinda envisioned Whiplash as a young whippersnapper with ADHD and a neck tic or something. He adores Smellerbee and gets excited by little things. Let's say he's ten. Skeeter is nine and is so named because he tends to be bothersome like a mosquito. His nosiness pays homage to the Harry Potter series' Rita Skeeter._

_Skillet, of course, is from Sio-Ute's 'Where Words Fail' (which I have unashamedly read, like, three times because it's beautiful and perfect and you should read it too because wow), who is so named because she works in the Freedom Fighters' kitchen and carries around a frying pan. I imagine that she's none too happy with Jet's drinking habit, either! XD I'll give her two assistants of my own creation, though, one of whom I have named Cookie (after the bean-loving hillbilly chef from the Disney Atlantis movie). They'll probably pop up later, too. _

_Also, thanks for being patient with me, ad I'm sorry for posting so late: I'll try to get a chapter up every weekend, but I spent a good portion of the weekend moving all of my shit out of my dorm and wasn't able to write that much. In any case, though, thanks __so__ much for reading! Hopefully I'll get Part II up soon :)_


	6. 4 Detour, Pt 2

**CHAPTER 4: DETOUR**

**Part II**

_[now]_

"I'm gonna kill him."

Smellerbee kicked her legs in the water, which she had submerged up to her knees from her perch on the shaded riverbank. Longshot, a few feet to her left, more or less mimicked her position, though he'd spared the water the agitation and had just let his legs bend with the current. He hadn't 'said' anything—figuratively or literally—since the troop had decided to take a brief respite at the river, and neither had Smellerbee, up until this point: they had just carried on almost robotically in mild shock, the silence that they usually comfortably shared now laced with tension and anger.

"What gives him the _right_," she huffed, digging her fingers into the soft loam of the bank, "to go around and—and _say_ things like that?! '_Mrs. Longshot'_… ugh, no one is _ever_ gonna take me seriously again if that catches on...oh, don't go acting all _offended_ on me!"

The archer's theatrical pout earned him a half-hearted splash, but did not have the uplifting affect that he had originally intended: Smellerbee's fury had dimmed down to a low simmer, yes, but Longshot could sense that the issue was still far from resolved. He bowed his head in apology, looking upon the girl with concern etched in his face.

"You're not the problem, Longshot, you know that," she mumbled. "It's my own stupid fault for getting us both dragged into this, with that stupid Cat-gator game on that stupid night with stupid Jet and—"

Longshot shook his head firmly. The situation that Jet had put her in that night—and the fallout that had ensued—was something beyond her control. It was unfair for him to have asked her to choose between her own personal desires and a direct order: whatever road she had taken, her dignity and reputation would have been similarly compromised anyway.

"Yeah, but I still could have left you out of it. I don't have a problem dealing with whatever I bring upon myself, but you didn't deserve that."

She swiftly drew her legs from the water, pulling her knees in close.

"I never wanted you to pay for my own mistakes."

_[then]_

"Looks like it's your turn, Sneers!"

The boy set his mug down, wiping his mouth off on his tattered sleeve before reaching for the bottle in the middle of the table. With an imprecise, yet satisfactorily affective flick of the wrist he'd sent the emerald-toned Fire Nation wine flask in wobbling circles, the vestiges of its liquid contents scattering about in a wide arc of ruby-red droplets. Other bottles—not yet quite as empty—clattered against the solid oak in a rhythmic hum, increasing in tempo as the flask neared inertia, the open end finally resting on—

"Jet."

The monk folded his hands as he regarded their leader, patiently awaiting his attention as the shuang-gou wielder finished his swig. Only when he'd slammed his filthy ceramic vessel face-down on the equally filthy wooden surface did Jet regard his address, flashing a smirk from across the table.

"Get ready to eat shit, bun-head," he taunted, extending a fist to meet Sneers' just over the bottle that had destined their duel.

"Drink piss, you womanizing bastard," the monk shot back, bouncing his clenched fist to the familiar chanting of the rest of the game's participants, never once dropping his challenger's gaze.

"Rat-viper, ostrich-horse, boar-q-pine!"

Draw at ostrich-horse.

"Rat-viper, ostrich-horse, boar-q-pine!"

Sneers' characteristic smirk dropped as he observed that Jet's pointer and middle fingers had curled to form fangs.

"Rat-viper poisons boar-q-pine," he slurred, rolling his neck around to work out the kinks. "So what will it be, Sneers: are you a truth-er or a dare-er?"

"Dare," he replied, hardly blinking.

Jet's grin widened. "Take off your shirt."

The monk rolled his eyes, complying despite the laughs and jeers from the other players.

"For the next three turns," he continued, teetering precariously as he leaned on his weathered stump stool, "you are a ventriloquist, and your belly button is your puppet. Everything you say goes through him."

The challenge was met with roars of laughter, and even Sneers himself chuckled: he couldn't deny Jet's creativity, even when it was usually helped along by copious amounts of alcohol.

So he grabbed a bit of pudge on either side of his navel, squishing the folds together as he assumed a sarcastic falsetto.

"Sneers' belly button kindly wishes Jet to fuck off," he mimed, only loudening the giggles and peals from the spectators.

A turn (and several glasses of wine) later, one of Sneers' navel monologues was interrupted by an impatient knock on the wall.

"Ah, Smellerbee! Longshot! Come join us for a bit, would'ya?"roared Jet, throwing his arms wide in welcome as one of the Freedom Fighters' newest recruits stood in the threshold, a tattered map of the local Earth Kingdom region marked with several precise charcoal notations clenched in her fist. Longshot flanked her, similarly laden with supply lists and additional notes.

"In a minute, Jet," Bee replied, eyeing Sneers' bare torso with visible disapproval. She had long since learned not to question whatever was going on in the mess hall during a game of Cat-gator, but the sight—no, the _stench_ of cheap wine and icky, sweaty teenage boys was something she had yet to see the appeal of.

"I'd better check that crate of booze off of the inventory list," she muttered, elbowing her way in between Piper and Sneers (_eew_) for a spot at the table. Longshot squeezed in on her right, grimacing as he realized that he'd just put his elbow in a latent puddle of spilled booze and soaked his forearm wraps.

Smellerbee, seeing that she had her leader's attention, wasted no time in giving a summary of the day's findings.

"Longshot n' I have been going through the letters we found during the raid today, and we've marked out a path as to where this convoy had been and what they'd done in the past few weeks. Based on this information we think that—"

"Aww, c'mon, guys, we don't need a report right this second!" Jet interjected. "Today, my friends: today, we celebrate a great victory over the Fire Nation, right boys?"

It was another minute before the boys' raucous expressions of approval died down enough for Jet's voice at a normal volume was able to break through the chatter again.

"S' there any way that we can go over this tomorrow?" he slurred, taking a swig straight from the bottle. "We're in the middle've a game of Cat-gator, an' I have yet to see Sneers act out the rest of his dare—"

"_Fine_," the girl huffed, tucking the map into one of her pockets. Longshot sent her a reproachful look as he reluctantly stuffed the remainder of the documents in his quiver: if how drunk he was now was any indication, 'tomorrow' would probably end up turning into 'next week.'

"But I'm with 'Shot on this," she warned: "if you're too hung-over tomorrow to actually hear about our findings—"

"I know, I know, you'll kick my ass from here to Ba Sing Se, yadda yadda yadda… but c'mon, take a break! We're not gonna get anything else done today, so why don't you two loosen up a bit?"

He sent the overturned flask to her side of the table with a flick of his fingers. Smellerbee sent the bottle twirling, and a new game was begun.

* * *

Piper had just finished his armpit fart serenade to the Earth Kingdom national anthem when the bottle reached Longshot again. He'd spun—Sneers—and lost—boar-q-pine impales ostrich-horse—and taken his usual punishment—truth.

Sneers scratched his chin: the archer was conveniently difficult to 'translate' during Cat-gator games, which usually limited his 'truth' punishments to questions that could be answered with either a nod or a shake of the head. Nevertheless, Jet had somehow managed to catch him off-guard a couple of times over the years, so he knew it was possible.

But then again, it had been awhile since he had been asked _that _question and, well, with a few new girls joining the Freedom Fighters in the past few months…

"You kissed a girl yet, Longshot?"

The boy was as calm as ever as he shook his head, though from her lower-than-average vantage point Smellerbee could detect that the tips of his ears—obscured from the others by the shade of his wide-brimmed hat— had turned a deep scarlet.

"Ah, c'mon, 'Shot, you gotta get some action _one_ of these days!" shouted Jet, spilling about half the contents of his mug as he gesticulated. "You'd better get going or Sneers is gonna beat you to it!"

"What are you guys, like, five?" implored Smellerbee, snatching the bottle from the center of the table before Sneers could launch a protest. "It's not a damn contest to see who can swap mouth-juice first."

"Nah, Bee: the_ real_ contest is who gets laid first."

The swordswoman rolled her eyes, gloved fingers drumming rhythmically on the armrest as another impromptu toast momentarily interrupted the game. Longshot glanced at her in apology, to which she replied with a shrug and the understanding that she needn't press the matter further.

* * *

When the chatter had finally died down again a few moments later, Smellerbee was poised to take her turn. She waited until everyone had taken a seat, their cups freshly filled, before resuming the round.

"Here goes!"

An emerald kaleidoscope glittered on the ceiling as she spun the bottle into motion, flickering with the tempo of the lantern flame several feet above their heads, spinning, spinning, slowing, landing—

On Jet.

She had a bad feeling about this.

The boy cracked his knuckles, whipping his head around to work out the kinks in his neck as he flashed her a smile, cool as ever.

"All right, Busy Bee, let's see what you've got."

Smellerbee bit her lip, suppressing a fidget as her leader's gaze turned uncomfortably predatory. She longed to look away—away from that inherent _darkness_ that Jet harbored, lurking in the shadows of his charisma until lust, be it for power or blood, drew it forth, echoing endlessly in the depths of his eyes—

"Rat-viper, ostrich-horse, boar-q-pine!"

Ostrich-horse tramples rat-viper.

_Shit. _

Well, she couldn't back out now.

The tension had become sufficiently tangible to the point that the other Freedom Fighters had either slowed or ceased their light chatter, their attention now drawn by the more promising prospect of excitement occurring before them.

Jet did not speak again until even the clinking of glasses and mugs had ceased.

"Tru—?"

"Dare."

Her glare made it very clear that the premature response had not been made out of nervousness. Jet's eyebrows raised in turn: he liked this girl's spunk; her eagerness to …meet a challenge.

"C'mere," he ordered, beckoning Smellerbee from her seat with his free hand. She obeyed, eyeing her leader warily as she circled around the table, stooping as he whispered something in her ear.

The others looked on with a mixture of amusement and confusion as Smellerbee resumed her full height again, looking as if she had been caught with her fly was down. She shuffled back to her seat, fists clenched and eyes glued to the floor, disregarding Longshot's concerned gaze as she sat back down.

Sneers looked on, raising an eyebrow. "So…?"

"Three seconds," said Jet, grinning evilly as he rested his elbows on the table, perching his head atop folded hands. "Shall we count them for you, Bee?"

She snorted, making a rather lewd gesture at the boy before finally turning to face the archer.

"I'm really sorry, Longshot."

He'd barely had a chance to ask her why when she pushed his hat back, grasped his hollow cheeks in her hands, and—

* * *

It had been messy, and loud, and had probably earned him a couple of bruises, but with a few well-placed glares and a shove or two Longshot had finally managed to make his way out of the mess hall. Bee, being as tiny and lithe as she was, had managed to escape just moments before, but the archer was not surprised to emerge from the dining room and find that the girl had vanished. Even the greenest of the Freedom Fighters knew that Smellerbee could make herself sparse in a heartbeat, and as he continued to flee the growing sound of raucous voices in his pursuit he had never more envied her elusiveness.

Even if she was quick, though, Longshot had spent enough time with Bee to know that she would probably be in one of several places: when she was angry, she typically went to a little sheltered clearing by the river to practice her knife-throwing or, when she was especially livid, to hack away at an old oak with one of her daggers like a beaver-pecker. When she wanted to clear her mind and cool off, she'd get industrious, sit on her bed and go through her collection of stolen weapons, cleaning and sharpening and organizing and reorganizing her cache as she pleased. When she got antsy—usually before a raid—the girl would sit cross-legged on the main deck of the hideout and repair the tears in her clothes and armor, or when a raid yielded an interesting load of books she would read, sometimes by candlelight deep into the night. Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep, Longshot would sit with her and whittle arrows, and not a word or a thought would pass between them for hours. The memory ached in his heart, and the archer found himself yearning for the familiarity; the simplicity and ease that their friendship had been.

Because even though Jet had dared her; even though her face had scrunched up in distaste as she'd smashed her lips into his; even though he knew that sometime in the near future they'd put it behind them and carry on as usual, Longshot couldn't shake the feeling that things would never quite be the same.

He had a niggling feeling in his gut that it had had something to do with the fact that the, well, he wouldn't quite call it a _kiss_, hadn't really been that yucky at all.

If he was going to be completely honest with himself, then Longshot supposed that it had actually been kind of nice.

_[now]_

She hadn't expected the familiar weight of his hand on her shoulder, and had anticipated the reassuring squeeze on her bicep even less, but as she lifted her head to read Longshot's face she was met with the exact response that she had expected.

"No, it_'s not _okay," she affirmed, her tone resolute. "Even if it was a dare, I… I violated your personal space. At the time I only thought about it as something _I_ didn't want to do: I never considered that maybe _you_ didn't want to be, er... you know." She bristled, a light pink dusting her cheeks.

Longshot raised his eyebrows: he'd never really thought about it that way, but he could definitely see why Bee would get mad if _he'd_ tried something similar.

Smellerbee had to laugh at that. "If you tried to plant one on me I would flay you alive, _archer_," she grinned, sticking out her tongue.

The corners of Longshot's eyes crinkled in silent laughter as his ears began to match her cheeks.

Perhaps this 'new' friendship wasn't so bad, after all.

* * *

_[A/N: Cat-gator is a game I conceived for the Avatarverse: it starts off with a ring of players, and the bottle is spun to determine the first player. That person must then spin the bottle to determine their rat viper-ostrich horse-boar q pine (kinda like rock-paper-scissors) partner. Loser has to choose truth or dare, which is then determined by the winner. Plays move clockwise. I dunno... it sounded like fun to me. Also, Piper is an OC (a loud jokester, from what I've included here). _

_And oh god I'm so sorry that took so freaking long: I had writer's block, and the summer heat does this thing where if it's past 9 PM and I'm staring at a Word document for more than a minute I pass out. I've woken up on more than one occasion while writing this thing to find a couple of lines of nonsense, be it a string of incoherent letters or a grammatically…_regrettable_ sentence. Hopefully the super-long chapter kinda sorta makes up for it._

_In any case, though, I hope y'all liked the kinda shippy chapter: it was an absolute beast to articulate in the exact way that I wanted it to go. I guess when you're actually in a relationship (because I wasn't when I wrote 'Blind Date,' I can tell you that much), you learn that falling in love is a lot more complicated than it's typically made out to be. One thing that I wanted to improve on from 'Blind Date' (which was already two years ago, wow) was to really delve into a couple of characters, and to steer away from the rom-com element that I (horrifyingly) realized had been so prevalent in that fic. _

_While I do want to preserve some elements of humor and romance in _this_ fic, it definitely won't be a focal point, and will be a lot more about the elements and factors of the Freedom Fighters' lives that come to shape who they are and why they do the things they do. I took a fascinating class on terrorism last semester, and I learned that there are a lot more factors that lead to radicalization (and, eventually, to acts that demonstrate those beliefs) than a sad backstory and emotional instability. It is my hope that I will be able to use this knowledge to sketch out a believable and entertaining tale to pick apart the reasoning behind the deeds, and to show that these characters that I have come to cherish so much can go so much further in terms of development than time allowed them in the show and, more recently, the comics. With this in mind I will endeavor to continue with this project, as sporadically updated as it might be, so long as there are people out there who enjoy it._

_Many thanks for reading / liking / following / reviewing / whatever: your support, as always, is what keeps me going.]_


	7. 5: Scars

**CHAPTER 5: Scars**

_[now]_

_Thud. _

Sneers made a sound halfway between a grunt and a groan as he dropped the crate just inside the threshold of his hut, nearly tripping over the cumbersome object as he stumbled to his dresser to grab a towel. Sometime between now and their break down by the stream one of the boy's latent blisters had broken, and he was intent on at least cleaning and dressing the wound before attempting to decipher the box's contents.

It was long past dinnertime when he, Skeeter, Longshot, and the others had finally returned home from the retrieval mission about half an hour ago. Skillet had been kind enough to leave several helpings of leftover stew in the kitchen, and they had all supped in silence before retreating into the canopy for the night.

Sneers expected that all of them had just about passed out by now: even Whiplash had nearly nodded off during their impromptu supper, and Smellerbee had had to carry him back to his hut before turning in herself not long after. The monk would have liked nothing more than to follow suit, but now that he was home and finally able to go through the letters and invoices he'd procured from the burned settlement he knew that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep until he'd at least skimmed a few of them.

As he secured the final knot over his weeping callus, Sneers felt around his bedside table for a box of matches and a spare lamp. Some fumbling and mumbling yielded a bright flicker not moments later and, grabbing the topmost piece of singed parchment, he began to read.

* * *

Sneers had been reading for about four hours when the familiar whine and groan of pressure on the hideout's wooden deck had brought him out of his semi-conscious trance. More than a little bit eager to take a break from what had until now proven to be a rather fruitless search for intel, the monk hoisted himself from his perch to take a quick peek out his window.

"Who on _earth_ 's out at this hour?" he muttered, squinting to adjust to the less-than-generous light provided by the quarter moon. Surely the night sentry would have stuck to the perimeter rather than venture to the center of the fort during their rounds…

The creak pattern was more distinct now: as a scout Sneers would have been able to pick out the more subtle irregularities, but there was no mistaking the _tap—stumblepladplad _of a child hobbling on a cane.

Sneers grabbed the lantern and a spare blanket before vanishing out the door.

"S-Sneers?"

His voice crackled and wavered in the humidity, barely audible over the steady, ringing hum of the night creatures: so small and pained, the scout noted with a twinge of anguish in his gut, from the soft optimism Kettle typically extruded.

"Whatcha doing out here, Kettle? Is everything all right?" he whispered, consternation evident in his tone.

The boy hung his head, wincing as he put all of his weight on the cane as he dragged his right foot forward.

"My leg— "

Kettle bit his lip, trying his best to hold back the latent sob that was rising in his throat. His little body shook like a leaf, teetering precariously on the crutch as what Sneers imagined to be a terrible pain radiated from the burn scar on his calf.

"I saw that your light was on, and I didn't want to wake anyone up, so—I'm really sorry—"

"No, no, not at all; there's nothing to be sorry for," reassured the scout, reaching out for the boy's shoulder to keep him from falling over. "Let's get you some salve, okay?"

His lip quivered, but Kettle managed a nod.

"All right, grab your stick, then," ordered Sneers, wrapping the blanket around the boy's shoulders before gingerly hoisting him up, trying to jostle his leg a little as possible. "We're gonna get you feeling better soon."

* * *

Not moments later Kettle was in Sneers' bed, his leg propped up on a box cushioned with several layers of old clothes. The monk flitted about the room, muttering to himself as he pulled out several boxes of vials and small containers, his methodical movements inspiring intrigue in the younger boy enough to warrant an inquiry.

"D'you do this a lot, Sneers?" asked Kettle, wringing an old blanket in his fingers.

"Yeah, kid; there's nothing to worry about," he reassured, clearing a space on his desk with a quick sweep of the forearm. "I make the salve that Smellerbee gives you for your leg."

Sneers swelled with pride as Kettle's eyes widened in surprise. "It's my own special recipe: all of the other Freedom Fighters say it's the best stuff."

The young boy's face became stuck somewhere between confusion and admiration. "You mean that the other Freedom Fighters use the goop, too?"

The addressed paused, tilting his head as he regarded the impromptu patient. "Well, yeah, Kettle," he answered, sensing that a bigger issue was on the young one's mind. "Some of us older kids get hurt when we fight the ash-makers in the raids."

He snapped a prickly leaf off of one of the plants on his windowsill, allowing its juices to ooze into a jar. "And some Freedom Fighters are like you, Kettle," he continued, "and come here already bearing wounds. No matter how you get it, kid, it's still a cut or a burn, and so it's usually gotta be treated the same way."

Despite the explanation Kettle's perplexity continued to magnify. "But I got hurt a long time ago, Sneers," he sighed. "How come it's taking so long to get better?"

The scout sprinkled a bark brown powder on the leaf extract, mixing the two ingredients together with a small wooden rod. "Have you ever fallen, Kettle, n' scraped your knee or your elbow?"

"Yeah, lots of times; everyone has."

"Well, our bodies are really good at taking care of little things like that," he explained. "A scrape can hurt, but it's usually not as bad as 't feels. Because there is so little damage, the body can repair itself pretty well, and soon it looks like you were never hurt at all."

He offered the finished paste to Kettle, who gratefully began to slather the mixture on his afflicted leg, gingerly tracing the injury with his fingers.

"Now, when we get injured more seriously, and there's a lot more damage to the body—"

"It takes longer for the body to make itself better again," finished the boy.

"Yes, that's right."

"So it's just gonna take a really, really long time to get better?"

"Yes, Kettle," he began tentatively, sitting down on the edge of the bed, "it's gonna take awhile for you to be comfortable using your leg again. But even when you do get better, I can't promise you that things are gonna look and feel just like they were."

Sneers rolled his left sleeve up to the elbow, revealing a series of irregular depressions just past the tan line on his wrist.

"Sometimes, when a wound's deep or serious enough, it leaves a scar."

Kettle traced the marks with his eyes, his brow still knitted in consternation. "How did that happen?"

The monk's eyes fell, and his posture worsened. "When my house was burning down, a beam fell from the ceiling and kicked up some debris. I got 17 shards of hot glass, metal, and ceramic embedded in my arm when I lifted it to protect my face as—"

He trailed off as the memory scratched at the back of his mind, lurking just beyond a door he thought he'd closed long ago.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you that!" Kettle blurted, waving his hands about frantically as if the force of his movements could scare the recollection back into latency. "I didn't mean—!"

"It's _fine_, Kettle, it's fine," he insisted, squeezing the boy's shoulder to keep him seated. "You didn't do anything wrong: I showed it to you, so you have every right to ask about it."

A dozen questions raced through his mind, each fighting for conversational dominance, but if the kid knew anything it was to not be overly nosy when inquiring about serious injuries, especially as the circumstances leading to their infliction were often traumatic.

"How long did it take to make the scar?" he offered warily, unsure if Sneers' condition still stood.

"Because they were pretty small on their own, it only took about a year for all of them to really fully heal. Before that they would crack n' bleed if I put too much strain on them."

Kettle looked down at his own injury rather scathingly. Though the throbbing pain that had woken him up and driven him to seek aid had now dulled to a softer ache, the boy knew that the affect wouldn't last forever.

"Does a scar—does _your_ scar—still hurt, Sneers?"

"Not nearly as much as it used to," he remarked, offering a small smile. "Sometimes when it gets really hot and wet outside it starts to sting and itch a little bit, but 's not that bad."

"You promise?"

The scout nodded firmly. "Every scar is different, Kettle. I can't speak for everyone, but in my experience I can promise you that things'll get better. It might seem slow-going, but_ you _willget better."

Kettle nodded as he wiped his nose on the back of his hand, remorse still lingering in his tone. "It's just that I—I didn't even _know _that you had that scar-thing on your arm."

"Most people don't," said Sneers as he rolled his sleeve back down, "but I guess that's the case with a lot of the Freedom Fighters."

"What do you mean?"

"It means that a lot've the kids here have scars, Kettle, but you wouldn't know it unless they told you."

"But why?"

Sneers took a deep breath: the sleep deprivation was wearing his patience thin, but he couldn't bring himself to deny the boy some answers. If his time at the monastery had taught him anything, it was that letting one's negative energy navigate a situation seldom resulted in a desirable outcome.

"For some people a scar is a link to a memory: a time, or a place, or a circumstance that I—that they'd rather forget."

Sneers paused, molding his words carefully.

"When I look at my scars, Kettle, I remember everything about the day that the Fire Nation took my family away from me. I remember how sad, and scared, and _angry_ I was that something so terrible could happen to such peaceful and loving people, how unfair it was that the spirits that we'd respected and revered all our lives couldn't even bother to protect us when we needed them most."

He rose from the bed, frowning and clenching his fists as Kettle looked on, hardly daring to breathe. The boy knew that he'd struck a nerve, but was at a loss as to how to resolve the entropy he had created without fanning the flames further. Of course, he trusted Sneers with his life—all of the Freedom Fighters did—but that didn't mean that he couldn't be frighteningly sincere when the occasion arose.

_Use what he's taught you. Show him that you've been listening._

Skillet's advice echoed in Kettle's memory, bouncing around in his little head for a time until, finally, it collided with an epiphany.

"Can you have scars on your spirit, Sneers?"

The scout turned about, his eyes flickering momentarily with intrigue.

"I suppose one can," he muttered, absentmindedly scratching his forearm, "but I'm not sure I have a salve for that."

Kettle's resolve, however, did not seem shaken.

"We'll make one, then."

Sneers couldn't fight the smile twitching in his lips as he felt Kettle's resolve return with those words.

* * *

It hadn't taken Kettle long to drift off to sleep after that: the kid had passed out right in Sneers' bed, the tiny sounds of his breath the only audible indication of his presence.

Sneers had continued to sift through the papers by candlelight, reading and rereading the scrawl inscribed in the charred parchment, only to huff in displeasure and add it to the growing stack of duds before grabbing something else he hadn't looked at quite so carefully yet.

The first of the morning birds had begun their songs when, after sifting through the file a third time, the scout spotted a faded, envelope. He hadn't found anything promising in it when he'd checked it two hours ago, but then again it had never occurred to him to check the front of it for a name or address.

He flipped it over, fighting to keep his tired eyes open as he tried to make out the calligraphic inscription.

"Liu Wong," he muttered aloud, remembering the contents of the letter. It had been some sort of trade invoice, but had not identified both parties.

Sneers stared at the envelope again, less than content that he couldn't determine that detail. Surely, any reputable trailer with the wherewithal to write an invoice would have at _least_ left a return address.

A return address.

He dove into the pile for another envelope, seeing the damned object with its damned tiny writing in his mind's eye. If this wasn't it then—

He'd found it, scanned it, scanned it-

There.

Sneers' hands shook as he read the inscription.

_Qi Lieng_

_Lieng Trading_

_Industrial District_

_Yu Dao_

"Uncle…"

* * *

**_A / N_**_: See I __told__ you that this story wasn't just thinly-veiled smellershot fluff XD In celebration of Book 3's release I spent a good portion of my Saturday getting this done. It was a challenging task, as I've never written Sneers before and only had a vague idea of what I wanted to convey in this scene when I started, but I hope you guys like it!_

_We don't see much of Sneers in the animated series (and even in 'The Promise' all we can see is that his loyalties and motives are pretty ambiguous, and that's because a love interest is involved and it makes a characterization reading REALLY HARD), but I hope that how I've portrayed him so far is satisfactory. I get the sense that he respects the older Freedom Fighters, but butts heads a lot with Smellerbee and (well, at least in my world) he likes to push her buttons. He's like a really annoying brother to all of the Freedom Fighters old enough to handle his taunting, but tends to be a real softie with the younger kids. The official A:tLA art book has him labeled as a scout, so I also have him as particularly perceptive and patient. Tei's 'Where Words Fail' has him portrayed kind of similarly, and I also liked his idea that that Sneers was a monk before he joined the Freedom Fighters, so I've adopted that, too._

_Kettle is an OC that I introduced to be Sneers' foil, but he kind of developed into this more complex entity as I kept writing. While I was proofreading I got a sense that Kettle is a lot like Lilo (from 'Lilo and Stitch,' obvi): he's a bit aloof and antisocial at times, but has unique relationships with the older sibling figures in his life and can be especially caring of others. I have him at about 7 years old here, at a time when he is becoming more aware and receptive of the people around him and subsequently realizing that he is not alone in the trauma (both physical and emotional) he has suffered. I'll bring him back later and get into how his empathy develops even more, particularly with animals._

_As always, __**reviews / likes / follows / comments**__ are appreciated! Feel free to suggest a prompt in the comments section, too: I'm always open for ideas on how to continue with this story!_


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